


Home

by hopeintheashes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s06e14 Mannequin 3: The Reckoning, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeintheashes/pseuds/hopeintheashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scenes from 6.14: Dean’s drowning under the weight of everything he’s lost, and how much of it for which he’s to blame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted March 3, 2011 on [LJ](http://hopeintheashes.livejournal.com/5315.html). Season 6 seems like (was) ages ago, but I'm in the process of cross-posting everything from LJ, so here it is! 
> 
> Some of the dialogue is from 6.14, which was written by Eric Charmelo and Nicole Snyder. 
> 
> Thanks to [**kat_of_rafters**](http://kat-of-rafters.livejournal.com/), who looked over an early draft, listened to my ramblings as I worked out the timeline of the episode, and called me on my endless sentences. Any remaining errors are mine. Additional research via Superwiki and Google Maps.

. . .  
. . .

 _Home… is this where the tortured and the troubled find their own?_  
   - Something Corporate, “Space”  


. . .  
. . .

“What do you want from us, Dean?”

He draws a sharp breath and her words come in with it, burning like whiskey as they settle on his tongue. “I—” They’re numbing his mouth, those words, so he swallows them down and tries again.

“You were the one who wanted this, Lise. Remember?” She’s turning away, dark wisps of hair floating above her shoulders. “You were the one who said it could work.” He can’t let her walk out. Not yet.

“Yeah, well.” She’s so calm, like she’s been staging this for months, running lines until all that’s left is a muted undertow of anger. “I was wrong.” She’s well-rehearsed and disconnected, and he is unprepared.

“So that’s it, then? That whole year, it doesn’t mean anything?” Dean’s heartbeat is pounding in his ears, sounding so much like hers did the last time he was here.

“I need the past to—Jesus, Dean. I just need it to be over. I need you to be gone and stay gone.” Her voice is still steady, but her hands are starting to shake. They’re each looking hard at opposite walls when Lisa tells him, “I’ve got to finish getting ready for my date.” She walks out, and that’s it. She’s gone.

Elbows on the counter, head in his hands, Dean half-tries to move. He could chase her down, make her talk this through. But really, what would he say? She’s got her mind made up. And she’s right, of course. He can’t give them anything. Never has, never could. Just shows up, needing. Just puts them in danger. Just makes them hurt.

He stands and climbs the stairs.

. . .  
. . .

Ben’s playing a game, something about zombies, thumbs working the buttons with practiced speed as Dean sits down to explain. Dean’s a little calmer—it makes sense to him now. He was just being selfish, thinking this was home. They’re better off without him. Safer without—

“You know you’re walking out on your family, right?”

If Lisa’s words were whiskey, Ben’s come like a punch to the gut, and for a split second Dean is sure he’s going to puke right there on the off-white carpet.

The seconds are ticking away as he swallows convulsively, unsure how to fight what Ben’s said. Ben grabs for his game and goes at it again, and when Dean looks up, there are tear tracks on the kid’s face. Fuck. He reaches for Ben’s shoulder, but Ben jerks back and turns away.

“If you’re going, just… go.” Ben spits out the words, and now Dean’s got his fingers spread over his eyes, coming in to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

“Ben… you can… you can always call me. If you need anything.”

“And will you come home?”

It hurts him to say the words; they’re the last few nails in his coffin. He’s back underground and running out of air.

Deep breath. “You know I can’t.”

Ben’s turned all the way around now, legs hanging over the far side of the bed. Dean’s staring at his back, thinking of Sam at that age, suddenly and fiercely independent but still expecting, still _needing_ Dean to be able to make everything alright. Still willing to accept Dean’s arm thrown over his shoulders, both of them taking comfort in the pressure that proved the other was there.

“Ben…”

“Bye, Dean.” The words are hard and spoken to the wall, more of a “get out” than a farewell, but after a moment, Dean decides that it’s a send-off he can live with.

He can’t quite bring himself to say goodbye. “Take care of your mom, okay?”

Ben might’ve nodded, but Dean’s out the door, down the stairs. Back in the Impala. _I need a drink._

. . .  
. . .

Dean had intended to drive for a while, to make some progress on the trip back east. Thing is, he’s got images flashing through his head like a montage from some ’80s movie, and he can’t take it anymore. He’s driving the state and county roads—wasn’t quite ready for the finality of the interstate—so what he finds is a beat-up honky-tonk, its neon beer ads glowing in the darkness.

There’s smoke hanging low and the music twangs, but they have whiskey and beer, and that’s what counts. He drinks like he’s trying to drown himself, and there’s a moment when he almost succeeds, choking and sputtering and regaining control. There’s a call from Sam that he doesn’t pick up, and then a text to tell him that the bones are burned. No rush to get back, then. Good.

He’s drinking most of the last of his cash, but he’s too far gone to hustle pool. There’s some NASCAR race on the TV above the bar, and he watches the cars circle endlessly, letting them pull him down into half-awareness. There’s a girl sliding in next to him, fingering his leather jacket, and all he can think about is whether Ben was right. The girl loses interest, moving on down the line. And suddenly it’s last call and the lights are coming on. They’re far too bright. He makes his escape, falling back out into the darkness.

He’s parked in the farthest corner of the lot, almost in the woods, more or less hidden from view. In truth, he’d known all along that his night would end this way. He pulls a couple of blankets out of the back and shivers against the cold leather seat.

. . .  
. . .

The sky is starting to lighten when Dean wakes and stumbles out of the Impala to take a piss. He’s still got one of the blankets wrapped haphazardly around his shoulders; it was too much work to untangle himself, and besides, it’s cold enough that he can see his breath. The sun hasn’t even made it up over the horizon and the birds that’ve started singing are already far too shrill. Still, his head is clearer. He wishes it wasn’t, and zips his jeans.

He’s standing there debating whether to go back to sleep when the dam he’d put up gives way. It goes all at once in a rush that leaves him breathless, heart pounding, head spinning, hands scrabbling for something that won’t give way. His knuckles make contact, and there’s blood on the bark. Then—shit—he’s gagging and puking, heaving and shaking, hands turning over to brace against the tree. He can hold his liquor better than this, and for a moment he’s ashamed. But he’s losing more than he can take: a smart, beautiful woman that he never deserved and the closest he’ll probably ever have to a son, and with them the only home he’s had since he was fucking _four years old._ He can’t focus, not really, but he’s sure that he never should’ve showed up at their door, broken and defeated, all those months ago. He backs away, falters, and sinks to the ground.

He sits on his heels for a minute with his back against a tree, eyes closed and breath uneven. He gets up slowly, finds some water, rinses, and spits. He’s exhausted, but he can’t stay here. He needs to get out of Michigan, out of the Midwest, back to the one bit of family he has left.

. . .  
. . .

Dean slows down once he’s out of the state. It’s twelve hours back to Passaic, and he’s not going to make it on three hours of sleep, no matter how much coffee is involved. He stops for a while to get lunch and to sleep, sunglasses on, burrowed down in the leather seat. He’s back on I-80 heading east when he gets the call from Sam: There’s a problem. How fast can you get here? Dean glances at the road signs and then at the clock. Sighs. Hopes it’s soon enough.

. . .  
. . .

It’s a full day and night from Passaic to Sioux Falls, but still, they barely speak. They take turns sleeping in the passenger’s seat and pretend not to notice the stretch of I-80 that follows the Michigan border, 50 miles from Battle Creek.

Back in South Dakota, Dean’s working on the Impala in the cool air of late afternoon. She doesn’t look too bad, really. She’s come back from so much worse from this. And with that there’s a stab of _Dad_ — but then Sam’s walking toward him, two beers in hand, and he pushes the thought away.

“What exactly did we do back there, Sam?” he asks, taking a beer and squinting into the sunlight.

“Yeah, I’m not putting it in the win column either.” There’s sadness in his voice, but a moment later it’s tempered with hope as he lists off all the reasons why they’re going to carry on.

Dean looks up at his brother, feeling small in his shadow. Sam’s as solid as he’s ever been, but it belies their secret: Sam came back to him fragile and fracturing, and Dean’s at the heart of that too.

Dean’s drowning under the weight of everything he’s lost, and how much of it for which he’s to blame. Sam shouldn’t be thanking him. Dean’s not sure he can take it. And then—

“For what it’s worth, I’ve got your back.”

—he has the answer he’s been searching for. He’d asked the question months ago, eyes cynical and mouth tight, facing down the part of his brother that wasn’t really Sam. But now he has his yes, and he takes it as evidence that at least some small part of this is going to be okay.

Dean pushes down the hood of the Impala, and, Sam by his side, walks toward the house. Bobby’s in there, making dinner from tin cans, answering phones with hand-scrawled labels, brushing dust off of ancient books. They’re not much of a family, the three of them. They’re bruised and scarred, restless and fading… but to Dean, it feels like home.


End file.
